I’ve lost people before, of course. To death and to the growing apart that happens with friends or past lovers. I’ve mourned in my own ways. The normal ways: crying, eating junk food, punching pillows and writing out the pain.
But when I began my own death, I grieved in a new way. Cleaning out.
I started out with the biggest hurdle, which was the books. Of course, what else could it be? I went into it with a plan. “I absolutely can’t get rid of those Lucky Peach issues. They’re not even made any more! And I can’t get rid of these. Or these. I’ll stick with cleaning out only the novels.”
Lucky Peach did not make the cut. Neither did some of the others I said had to stay. The more I cleaned out, the easier it was. In fact, it got so easy I’m about to re-do the initial ones to make sure there aren’t any extra I can add to the goodbye pile. (There most definitely will be.)
I didn’t want to stop. I did the books, the puzzles, even some nail polish. Why not? Why not also include purses or clothes? Why not? I told myself I had caught the cleaning bug, and I was just riding it out.
It occurred to me on day two that maybe I was mourning the impending loss. Then I realized I was actually grieving for more than that. I was grieving the death of myself. Each thing was from a different time in my life.
The cookbooks: when baking was my comfort, as it has been off and on through my life.
The first time I bought from an online used bookstore, a weekend I happened to be spending in the early days of a relationship when we would go back and forth to each other’s houses.
My food writing phase which was basically just a cookbook obsession part two.
Instruction books for trinkets and any number of items that I knew I’d never actually make.
Who the hell needs this many books?
I was angry. I went to my phone. These stupid wishlists. So many years sitting in the digital space and I knew damn well I’d never buy them. I knew even if I added every single thing to my cart and checked out, they wouldn’t make me happy. I felt the burden of things weighing me down, crushing me under paper and cardboard, ink and shipping boxes. A quick hit of dopamine before it went away, and I was on the hunt for the next fix.
The hope of things that never happened or that were long since passed. I fantasized about a tornado coming down and sucking up only the extra items but leaving the house and the living safe. Let me start again with some clothes, my Kindle and laptop. A journal. A sketchbook. A few artbooks. Only my very favorite ones. There aren’t many. I don’t need anything else.
Note: I started writing this a couple of months ago when I first began the process of shedding and changing. I’ve cleaned out an alarming number of books, and I find the urge to add new ones is greatly diminished. I find I don’t miss them. I find I’m liking myself a little more each day. Each day, it hurts a little less.
Sara Myriad
